Satish Verma
Unreachable
Like clones, your hands
embrace, winding up
the duty of fists―
in half-light.
Was your love
primordial? I would ask
myself, accepting the tears
from your red eyes.
I will borrow your
faults. Want to become
human. The defeat in
your hands was rewarding.
The rivals bloom,
without water of eyes.
O daisy, I was run over
by the stamping of clouds.
Give me the speed of light.
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